The Second Portal

“You climb one hill hoping for clarity and find, instead, a second wound in the sky—and a girl standing in the dust like she’s been waiting for you to ask the wrong question.”

Reaching the peak, my hands came to rest on my hips, my lungs burning slightly from the climb. I narrowed my eyes against the brightness of the horizon, scanning the expanse beyond. Then I froze.

“I don't think that was there before,” I said bluntly, my voice flat and tinged with a sharp edge of accusation.

Noah, still catching his breath, finally reached my side. “What wasn’t?” he huffed, each word punctuated by short, ragged gasps.

“That,” I said, pointing with a trembling finger at the spectacle unfolding in the distance. A second Portal had appeared beside the first—larger, more imposing, its swirling vortex casting an eerie glow that rippled across the sand like a silent warning.

My stomach clenched into a tight knot. The sight filled me with a deep and inexplicable dread, as though the very fabric of reality had shifted once more, leaving us teetering on the edge of something vast and unknowable.

Noah followed my gaze, and I saw the confusion etch itself across his face. His eyes widened, his brows drawing together as his mind tried to impose order upon the new disruption, to find logic where none seemed to exist.

We stood there in silence for a beat too long, our thoughts a tangled web of disbelief and mounting fear. But then, like a sudden crack splitting the earth, another worry surged to the forefront of my mind—sharper, more urgent.

“But where's Charles?” I demanded, my voice laced with panic, my face twisting into a grimace as my eyes swept the horizon. I searched desperately for a familiar shape, a flash of movement—anything that might signal the presence of my youngest son.

The answer, or lack of it, sent ice trickling through my veins.

Without another word, I turned and began my descent down the hill, the soles of my shoes skidding slightly on the loose sand. Each step felt heavier than the last, my fears dragging behind me like an anchor.

“Greta! Wait!” Noah called from above, his voice ringing out across the slope, tinged with desperation.

But I couldn't stop. I wouldn’t. Not when my child might be out there—alone, lost, or worse. The hill, the heat, the uncertainty—all of it fell away beneath the singular, driving instinct of a mother’s love.

As we neared the bottom of the hill, the shimmering heat made the edges of the landscape waver, but one figure stood sharp and distinct against the ochre sand—a young, slender woman, poised with a strange stillness. Her long, flowing silver hair glinted in the unforgiving Clivilian sun, catching the light like strands of metal thread. She looked like something conjured from myth, ethereal and incongruous amidst the dust and emptiness.

At her feet lay stacks upon stacks of money—Australian notes, crisp and garish, their colours vivid against the parched earth. The sheer volume of it was staggering, obscene even, as though someone had dumped the spoils of a failing world at the gateway to another. It felt like a mockery of everything we had sacrificed, everything we had believed. What good was money here? What did it buy in a world that had no shops, no cities—no rules?

My breath caught in my throat, and I halted mid-step, blinking hard to ensure I wasn't hallucinating. But no—she was real, and the money was real. My heart pounded, not just with confusion but with the prickling unease that accompanied the surreal. Given the absence of any others nearby, I could only assume this was Beatrix—the Guardian Jerome had spoken of.

“Quite the haul, huh?” Beatrix exclaimed, her grin stretching wide across her face. The expression didn’t meet her eyes, and there was something wild in the way she bore it—too self-assured, too comfortable in the mayhem.

Her flippancy made my stomach twist. I opened my mouth, prepared to ask—no, demand—answers. Who was she? What was this? Why were we being dragged deeper into this madness with every passing hour?

But I didn’t get the chance.

She wasn’t speaking to us.

Before I could voice a single thought, I turned to see Paul and Jerome making their way down the hill, their strides long and purposeful. Paul’s face was grim, set with a kind of resolve I recognised from his childhood—the expression he wore when he had something heavy to carry and no idea how to set it down.

“This one,” Beatrix said, jerking her thumb towards the newer, more imposing Portal, “seems to be linked to me and Jarod.”

Her tone was so casual, so devoid of reverence, that it sent a chill down my spine. As though this Portal—this threshold between worlds—were no more significant than a door left ajar.

Paul nodded, his eyes narrowing slightly, the weight of the moment clearly pressing in on him. I could see his mind turning, trying to process the implications, to assess the risk, the responsibility, the danger.

“How did you manage this?” he asked, voice low and edged with suspicion. His hand gestured towards the obscene display of currency as though it might leap up and bite him.

The wind shifted then, stirring the notes into little flutters of colour, like birds trying to take flight—and still, there were no answers. Only more questions.

But before Beatrix could respond, Jerome’s voice cut through the thickening tension, sharp and insistent, snapping my attention away from the unsettling swirl of the Portal and the garish piles of cash that now seemed to mock the seriousness of our plight.

“Dad,” he said, urgency ringing in his tone as he addressed Noah directly.

“What, son?” Noah replied, turning towards him, his brow creased with concern.

Smiling—almost smugly—Jerome lifted the laptop aloft like a trophy. “Let’s talk to Charles.”

Noah nodded slowly, a flicker of warmth softening his features, the appreciation for Jerome’s initiative momentarily eclipsing the uncertainty that clung to us all. Around us, Paul and Beatrix’s conversation continued, their words now a murmur at the edge of my awareness, no more distinct than the wind whispering across the desert.

We followed Jerome towards the smaller Portal, the original one, its dormant surface translucent like the surface of a forgetful dream—beautiful, yes, but alien and terrifying all the same. It stood as a silent sentinel over the boundary between worlds, a monument to everything we had lost and everything we still didn’t understand.

“Why do we need to talk to him with that?” I asked, gesturing towards the laptop, my expression tight with confusion. I didn’t like this reliance on strange devices and convoluted steps. I wanted simplicity. I wanted my son. “Can't we just bring him straight here?”

Noah looked as though he was about to answer, his mouth parting, breath drawing in. But Jerome was quicker.

“Do you really expect Charles to simply walk through a giant wall of swirling colours?” he asked, his tone thick with sarcasm, eyebrows raised in theatrical disbelief. His expression made my stomach twist. I was used to sarcasm in the world—we had raised teenage boys, after all—but it still stung when it was directed at my concern, my hope.

I bristled, my spine straightening, cheeks flushing with a mix of embarrassment and indignation. Perhaps it was a naïve question, but this was all new to me—this world, these rules, this strange, shimmering tear in the fabric of reality. How could anyone be expected to navigate it without stumbling?

And yet, underneath the sting, I saw the point he was trying—poorly—to make. We couldn’t just expect Charles to do what we had done. Not without warning. Not without guidance.

Still, I bit back my retort, choosing instead to focus on the flickering image of the Portal before us, the place where, perhaps, we might see our boy’s face again.

Noah sighed softly, his voice barely above a whisper, the words more a confession to the air than a response to any of us. “We did,” he said, and the weight of it settled over us like a shroud. It was an admission, a quiet reckoning with the blind trust that had carried us through the Portal, into this strange and unforgiving land.

Jerome glanced at Noah, curiosity dancing in his eyes. There was a sparkle there—a mischievous glint, as if he were trying to make light of the gravity none of us could escape. “I still haven’t figured out quite how that all happened yet,” he said, a wry smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

The levity in his tone scraped against my nerves. I felt a flicker of heat in my chest, irritation rising swiftly—too swiftly. This wasn’t the time for jokes. Not now. Not when I stood on the precipice of seeing my youngest son again.

“I think we can save that conversation for later,” I said sharply, my words clipped and taut with the strain of emotion I was barely containing. My eyes remained fixed on the Portal, on the place where the veil between worlds was thinnest, desperate for the glimpse of my child that would calm the storm within me.

As if summoned by the urgency in my thoughts, the Portal shimmered and came alive, the colours burst forth, leaping into motion, coalescing into a swirling spectacle of light. A kaleidoscope unfurled before us, the vortex pulsing with energy that was at once beautiful and terrifying.

Then—Luke.

He stepped through, emerging from the heart of the storm with the confidence of someone who had done this before. His face was set, eyes bright with purpose, his presence immediately commanding.

“Ready to talk to Charles?” he asked, directing the question to Jerome.

Jerome nodded without hesitation, already clutching the laptop tighter to his chest, anticipation lighting up his features. And though I tried to steady myself, to prepare for whatever came next, my heart was already racing.

Just a little longer, I told myself. Just hold on a little longer.

I watched as Jerome settled himself in the dust, the laptop balanced precariously on his knees. He worked with a quiet urgency, connecting it to the network cable that Luke had brought through the Portal. Every movement seemed magnified in my heightened state—each click, each adjustment, each breath he took was loaded with the weight of my anticipation.

Noah and I hovered behind him, silent sentinels as the screen began to glow. My heart pounded so fiercely I thought it might leap from my chest. I pressed a trembling hand to my sternum, willing myself to stay calm. My eyes never left the screen. A desperate hope took hold of me, tightening its grip with every passing second.

As Beatrix and Paul's conversation murmured on somewhere behind us, their voices became little more than white noise, swallowed by the rushing of blood in my ears. Their words, once clear, now seemed distant and irrelevant. The only thing that mattered was this—this fragile tether back to our son.

I dropped to my knees beside Jerome, the gritty dust biting at my skin. My hands came together in my lap, fingers twisting with nerves as I tried to quiet the storm of emotion inside me. Please, I thought. Please let him be safe. Please let him be willing.

“He's answering!” Jerome burst out, his voice a shot of lightning in the still air. It sent a jolt of electricity surging through me, a visceral thrill that left me breathless, suspended on the edge of something holy.

And then—there he was.

Charles’s face blinked onto the screen. His features were so achingly familiar that it almost hurt to look at him—his unruly hair, the slope of his brow, the boyish grin that tugged at the corners of his mouth. But in this world of strange skies and crimson dirt, he looked like a vision from a dream—out of place and impossibly dear.

I couldn’t speak. My breath caught somewhere between lungs and throat, a painful lump of unshed tears rising fast. Just seeing him was almost too much.

“Hey, Charles!” Jerome called out, his joy unrestrained and contagious, his face lit with a rare kind of pure happiness.

“Yo, Jerome! Where the heck are you? Looks kinda bright and dusty out there,” Charles replied, his tone light and amused, completely oblivious to the emotional tidal wave his appearance had unleashed within me.

I pressed a hand to my mouth, stifling the sob that threatened to escape. He was alive. He was well. And for now, that was enough.

Unable to contain myself any longer, I leaned across Jerome, practically crawling into his lap as I shoved my face in front of the laptop. The sight of Charles, the sound of his voice—it overwhelmed every ounce of decorum or restraint I had left. My need to see him, to be close to him, eclipsed everything else.

“Whoa, Mum! Hold on there!” Jerome cried, his arms flailing as he scrambled to steady the laptop, which wobbled perilously under the sudden shift of weight.

Charles’s laughter burst from the speakers, light and genuine. The sound cut straight through the tight band of tension around my chest, cracking it wide open.

“Hey, mum,” he said, and his voice—so familiar, so achingly sweet—sent tears spilling over my lashes. That simple greeting, full of warmth and casual affection, undid me completely.

“Charles! Are you okay?” I asked, my words pouring out in a frantic rush, the intensity of my relief almost dizzying. I leaned in closer, as though sheer proximity to the screen could somehow bridge the distance between us. My face was mere inches from his image, close enough to count the light freckles on his nose.

But my desperation had a will of its own. In my haste, I jolted the laptop again, nearly knocking it clean out of Jerome’s hands. He let out an exasperated noise, hugging the device to his chest as though shielding it from my maternal ferocity.

Jerome shot Noah a helpless look—equal parts plea and protest—as though begging him to do something, anything, to rein me in.

But Noah, dear man, simply gave a soft, knowing shrug. His eyes met Jerome’s with a glimmer of apology, but he said nothing. He understood. He knew there was no force on Earth—or Clivilius—that could keep me from my child in that moment.

With a sigh of resignation, Jerome turned his attention back to the screen, his tone slipping into something calm and measured, as though trying to counterbalance the whirlwind of emotion I had just unleashed.

“Charles, come to Clivilius,” he said plainly—a blunt invitation to join us in this strange and unsettling land.

Charles laughed, the sound rich and unbothered, as if we were chatting from the safety of our lounge room, rather than across realms. The warmth of his mirth did soothe something raw within me, but it also grated against the frayed edges of my nerves.

“I dunno, I can have all the computer time I want if I stay here,” he joked.

I felt the corner of my mouth twitch—part irritation, part reluctant affection. Typical Charles. Forever unserious, always toeing the line of cheek and charm. The youngest of our children, he had long claimed the role of family jester. Heaven help me, that boy drove me mad... and yet, his antics had always lit our home with laughter.

Jerome leaned closer to the laptop, his voice dropping to a stage whisper thick with mock desperation. “Please, Charles,” he hissed, eyes wide with exaggerated dread. “Don't leave me here alone with mum!”

“Jerome!” I scolded, lifting my hand to give him a gentle but well-earned tap to the back of the head. He ducked, grinning, while Charles’s laughter rang once again from the speakers—bright, unburdened, and utterly oblivious to the storm I felt inside.

Noah, ever attuned to the currents of my emotions, stepped beside me and rested a steadying hand on my shoulder. His touch was warm, grounding, and I leaned into it instinctively.

“Greta,” he said, his voice a low murmur, gentle yet insistent. “Why don't we step away for a bit? Jerome knows what he's doing.”

I hesitated, torn between the desire to remain glued to every pixel of Charles’s image and the wisdom of Noah’s words. With a reluctant nod, I allowed myself to be guided away, my bottom lip quivering slightly as we moved from the screen—our fragile tether to the child I longed to hold once more.

“Noah,” I said, my voice trembling under the weight of all the things I couldn’t control, a volatile blend of fear and frustration catching in my throat. “I don't like our family being separated like this.”

Without hesitation, Noah pulled me into his arms, enveloping me in the steady warmth of his embrace. His chin rested lightly atop my head as he pressed a soft kiss into my hair—an anchor in the midst of my emotional tempest.

“It'll all be fine,” he murmured, the words spoken with the quiet confidence of someone desperately trying to believe them. “Charles is a smart kid. He's got Jerome and Luke helping him with the decision.”

I tilted my face upward, my eyes locking onto his, searching for something solid, something unshaken. In the shadowed depths of his gaze, I found it—a flicker of hope, however fragile. It glowed there like a candle in the dark, flickering but not yet extinguished.

“Perhaps we should say a prayer?” I asked, my voice hushed with reverence. The idea spilled from me not as a suggestion but as a lifeline, a plea for the divine guidance we both craved.

Noah nodded, his features softening with shared conviction. He closed his eyes and bowed his head, extending his hand to mine. Our fingers met and intertwined, the familiar gesture grounding us both in something far greater than ourselves.

Together, we stood in that still moment, cloaked in silence and spirit. The wind brushed gently against our skin, rustling the dry air like pages in a sacred text. Distant voices murmured on the edge of our awareness, but they were no more than echoes, easily swept away by the sacred hush that surrounded us.

I lifted my head and glanced over at Noah, my heart thudding gently in my chest as I searched his face. “I thought you were going to say it,” I murmured, my voice delicate, uncertain, unsure who would carry the prayer forward.

Noah nodded silently, his head bowing once more as he took a deep breath, his eyes closing as he gathered his thoughts. “Dear Heavenly Father,” he began, his voice soft and filled with a quiet intensity that made my heart ache with love and admiration.

As he spoke, his words tumbling out in a rush of emotion and devotion, I felt my own eyes sting with unshed tears. My throat tightened with the weight of fears too long buried, doubts I had tried to keep at bay. Noah’s voice cracked with love and concern as he pleaded for Charles’s safety, for the well-being of all our children. The rawness of his prayer mirrored the turmoil in my own soul.

Then, slicing through the sacred, came Jerome’s shout. “He's ready!” The words rang out with jubilant finality, shattering the fragile stillness of our moment of supplication.

I tore myself from Noah’s embrace, surging forward towards Jerome with a mother’s desperation, my heart thudding wildly with a fierce, protective need. I had to see my son. I had to know he was coming—that this would all be worth it.

But just as I reached him, Jerome's expression shifted. His face crumpled in a grimace, the sudden disappointment stark and cruel. “Oh, wait. No, he's not,” he said, and the words hit me like a punch to the chest, knocking the breath from my lungs.

“What do you mean, he's not?” I demanded, my voice rising in pitch as panic flared. I could feel it clawing at the edges of my composure. “Has he decided not to come?”

Jerome held up a hand, motioning for me to hold back my questions. His attention was fixed on the screen, his brow creased with concentration. “Help with what?” he murmured, leaning in closer.

And then, through the speakers, Luke's voice broke through, clear and reassuring. “Hey, Jerome, can you go and get me some empty shopping trolleys for me? I'll bring them in here and Charles can help me finish bringing all that food storage into Clivilius.”

Relief surged through me like a flood, so strong and sudden it made my knees threaten to buckle. My breath caught in my throat as a giddy wave of joy swept over me. He was still coming. Charles—my boy—was still planning to join us in this strange, uncertain land.

The delay, however maddening, was inconsequential next to the sheer, uncontainable joy of knowing that our family would soon be one step closer to being whole again.

Suddenly, Luke himself emerged through the Portal, his face split wide with a grin that made my heart soar with a flicker of newfound hope. “Whose going to help me get the trolleys?” he asked, his voice filled with a cheerful enthusiasm that was almost infectious.

Despite everything—the hardship, the confusion, the aching displacement—his energy brought a momentary lift to the heaviness that had settled over me.

“Off you go, Jerome,” I told him, my voice firm yet laced with a quiet pride. There was gratitude, too, swelling in my chest—gratitude for the son who had, in these strange and uncertain times, become something steady, something dependable. A pillar of strength when I so desperately needed one.

As Jerome rose, I caught the swift, almost imperceptible movement of his hand as he slid a few of the brightly coloured notes into his pocket. A sly grin curved his lips, mischief flashing in his eyes. I shook my head, exasperated but amused. In another time, I might have scolded him, but not now—not today. Some things, I decided, were worth letting slide.

Noah stepped forward. With a gentle, reassuring hand on Jerome's shoulder, he offered his support. “I'll help you, Jerome,” he said, his voice quiet but purposeful, each word imbued with love and a resolve that made my heart swell once again.

In that moment, as I watched father and son walk side by side, heading towards their shared task, I felt something stir in my soul—a fragile thread of faith, stitching us back together, one small act at a time.

I stood rooted to the spot, watching the gentle sway of their shoulders as they moved further into the sunlit expanse, their figures silhouetted against the harsh, golden glare. Noah's arm slipped easily around Jerome's shoulders, a quiet gesture of fatherly affection that made my heart ache in the best possible way—with love, with pride, with gratitude too vast for words.

As I watched them disappear into the dusty shimmer of the Drop Zone, the sound of their footsteps eventually lost to the hush of the breeze, a wave of peace washed over me. Not the full-bodied comfort of certainty, but something gentler, something steadier—a quiet assurance that, despite all the unknowns, we were where we needed to be. Together.